The Winter Soldier
by snakefloss
Summary: (Sorta drabble, may never be finished. Minor suicide mention. Will have Tony Stark as a minor character later on. No shipping.) Bucky is having a hard time trying to keep up with his memories, and staying in control of his own body. HYDRA did a very good job of reprogramming his mind, and the Winter Soldier wants to finish his mission.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: I am trying a new fanfic, and I have no idea if this will actually be more than just a oneshot. Also, it's just drabble and I have no clear plot written out, but I know where it could go if I decide to finish. I was really tired when I typed this up and it gets a little shoddy near the end... sorry ^.^;**

**Disclaimer: I do not own the Winter Soldier, Bucky Barnes, Captain America, or that one kid in the movie that recognized Cap.**

* * *

He looked at his own memorial. It was almost unreal. He could see his face in black and white, he could recall everything mentioned in the biography, but it just didn't seem like it was real to him. It was like watching a movie. You could tell someone about everything that happened in the movie, but you couldn't tell them how it felt to be there. He watched the video of himself running with Captain America, and he could remember exactly when that had happened, but not how he had felt about it. He was almost certain that he could only recall when it had happened because it said so right next to the video. September 14, 1942.

There were still parts of his memory that were missing, but more came back to him every day. He couldn't remember how he was supposed to have died. The audio recording that played whenever he pressed the red button could give him more information about his own death than he could give himself.

"He fell from a train, despite Captain America's best efforts..."

That was how he had lost his arm, but it didn't explain how he was found alive.

"His body was never recovered..."

Of course it wasn't. He was standing right here, in front of the part of the Smithsonian dedicated to him.

"Bucky was the only Howling Commando to give his life serving Captain America..."

He balled his metal hand into a fist. He wanted to rip the entire appendage off, with its red star and HYDRA technology. He wanted to take it out and bleed and die, right here, where the memorial would finally tell the truth. _That would be stupid_, he told himself, _because I don't want to die._

He was so caught up in his returning memories that he almost didn't notice the little boy who was staring at him. The boy was wearing a shirt with Captain America's new shield on it. It seemed like this wasn't the first time that he had visited the exhibit, and it wasn't the first time he had seemed to see someone who wasn't supposed to be there.

At first, Bucky assumed the boy was staring at him because he pressed the little button every time the audio ended. After a moment, he realized the kid seemed to be shifting his gaze from Bucky to the picture and back again. Realization hit him suddenly. The kid recognized him, despite his longer hair and stubble and the baseball cap he wore to cover his face.

The shock of this caused him to move his hand to the gun holster he no longer wore. He remembered that his gun was in his pocket and, horrified, also remembered that he would never want to shoot an innocent child. He slowly took his hand away from his belt and gave a shaky little smile to the child.

"Don't-" He cleared his throat, his voice cracking from lack of use, "Don't tell anyone, okay, kid?" he asked, sounding gentler than he thought he was capable of at this point.

The kid grinned and nodded, ecstatic that he had met the _real_ Bucky Barnes and that he got to keep _his_ secret. He ran away to talk to his friends, no doubt to tell all about what had just happened. Bucky honestly didn't see a reason why that was a problem, but something about anyone knowing about him made him uneasy. If HYDRA wasn't really defeated, they would be looking for him everywhere...

To add to that, he was still trying to get over the fact that he would have _shot_ the little boy if his gun had been in a different place. He had his memories back, but being the Winter Soldier had changed him - probably forever - and he would have to be more careful.

A few days ago, he wouldn't have cared at all about whether or not that little boy was dead right now. He disgusted himself, remembering all of the assassinations he had carried out. He hadn't even _questioned_ it! He just _killed_ all of those people, for no reason! He had even tried to kill Steve, his old best friend... He thought of the fun times they had, and found that he couldn't remember the joy. He felt nothing as he contemplated the mission he had failed, unlike all of the other successful missions. So many people had died at his hands, the hands that were only half human... the other half was HYDRA. Again, he resisted the urge to rip the arm out of its socket. Instead, he just ripped his glove off and looked at the shining silver.

Now angry and upset at himself, he had to stop him from destroying the display in front of him as well. He didn't deserve even this for all he had done. He didn't even deserve to be mentioned by Captain America. He walked out of the Smithsonian solemnly, with both hands in his pockets, trying to keep the gun hidden as he passed the guards. He didn't want them to get the wrong idea.

He almost laughed at that.

The sky had gotten grayer since he had entered the museum, just to spite him, it seemed. A few drops of water hit his jacket, and he was glad that he was wearing it and his arm couldn't rust or even be affected by water.

He hailed a taxi, the gesture reminding him of having to hail HYDRA before every mission, despite the wave not being very similar. He climbed into the yellow cab just as the rain started to really come down. The sky seemed to be crying over something, but he didn't know what.

Bucky gave the man behind the wheel directions to a cheap motel he had looked up beforehand. It wasn't too far, but far enough for the rain to get really bad by the time he was there. He sighed, but only in his mind. His outside expression was almost blank as the cabbie started driving.

"Checking out the Captain America exhibit?" the driver asked, trying to start conversation. Bucky ignored him, staring out the window and watching the raindrops eat each other as they slid down the window. Thunder rumbled in the distance.

Bucky glanced at the driver, and slowly pulled his metal arm out of his pocket so he wouldn't alert him. He grabbed the wallet sticking out of the man's pocket while he was looking around at a stop sign. He quickly put his hand and the wallet back in his jacket pocket as the man looked his way before continuing to drive.

They drove past the waterlogged wreckage of one of the Project Insight helicarriers, the one that Captain America had brought down while Bucky was trying to kill him. Bucky deliberately looked away, not wanting to remember dragging Steve to the shore, or having so many of his memories shoved back at him all at once. Instead, he focused on polishing his metal thumb with his jacket sleeve.

"It's amazing, how big these planes are. I wonder how they made them? Such a shame they were used for such a horrible purpose..." the man trailed off, realizing that he wasn't going to go very far in trying to break the ice.

Bucky wanted to stay silent, to enjoy the peace now that the man knew he should shut up. He wanted so badly to just watch the rain race down the window... but he couldn't stop himself from asking the question burning his mind.

"What were they used for?" he asked, his rough voice surprising the driver. He obviously hadn't expected Bucky to answer. Bucky eagerly waited for the response as the man got over his little shock. HYDRA never told him anything but his mission, and he had no idea why he had been there in the first place.

"Well, there were those organizations... HYDRA and SHIELD, I think?" Bucky nodded at the man. He took his sweet time thinking about Bucky's question and answering, and they had gotten quite far before he began talking again. "Yeah, they both had different ideas about the planes... SHIELD was going to take out potential threats to the world, and HYDRA-" The man stopped talking as he hit the brakes in front of a badly-maintained building. "Well, this is your stop," he said with a smile, not noticing Bucky's angry expression. What was HYDRA going to do with the helicarriers?

Calming down, he handed the man a large tip, because he was using the driver's money. He got out and slammed the door, his left hand making a dent in the metal and scraping some of the yellow paint off. The rain immediately began to soak his hat, and he took it off, letting the heavy rain soak his hair.

By the time the driver noticed the thievery and came back, Bucky would be gone. He couldn't afford to stay in one place for long, and he was leaving first thing in the morning. As he walked into the registration building, the woman at the front desk sat up a little straighter and ran her fingers through her bangs. It seemed to be empty aside from himself and the woman.

"How can I help you?" she asked, batting her eyelashes. Bucky frowned a little at her not-so-subtle and not-so-great attempt at flirting, and pulled out the wallet.

"I need a room for the night," Bucky responded, sounding almost bored. The woman was beautiful, and he recalled being very interested in women like her at one time. Now, all he was focusing on was getting a bed to sleep in, roach-ridden or not. Without her.

"Alright, hon, that's fifteen dollars." She seemed to be ready to say something a little more suggestive when she noticed his hand.

He was too absorbed in counting the money and thinking about old memories to notice that she had seen the metal glinting in the dim light. Thinking it was a wedding ring and being disappointed, she was surprised when a hand made of metal gave her the money.

"Your hand is..." she trailed off, unsure of what to say. She stared at it for a moment, not worrying about being rude.

He cleared his throat, and she seemed to snap out of her trance. She handed him the room key and a little note that looked suspiciously like a phone number, gave him the directions to his room, and winked. He raised an eyebrow at her, which was hidden by his hat, and walked towards the stairs he was directed to.

Thinking about his old life was beginning to make his head pound. Reaching the top floor and walking down the hall, it quickly got worse. By the time he reached the door, he was already fumbling with the key, wanting to get in the room and sleep to get rid of the headache.

Throwing open the door, he stumbled into the room and dropped to his knees on the rough carpet. He held his head in his hands, almost certain that the throbbing of his head could be felt from the building across the street, and kicked his door closed. More memories entered his head. He could remember a train... Steve reaching for him... he was falling now... He was convulsing violently on the floor now, like he was waking up from a nightmare over and over, as the memories flooded his mind.

Images filled his head, and it felt like he was fast forwarding a movie. Something in his mind clicked, or unlocked, or maybe snapped, and his seizure stopped.

Lying on the floor, he let go of his head. His hands had blood on them, and he realized his ears were bleeding. His headache was still there, but it didn't bother him anymore. He stood up slowly, testing his limits, and found that he was fully capable of walking on his own, despite the seizure.

He also had the strong desire to kill.

The Winter Soldier had no orders, though. He had no way of knowing what to do. He was lost without HYDRA's orders. However, he did know that he was an assassin. Assassins were meant to kill, to see blood and rip flesh with their hands and knives, to puncture skin with their bullets. If he had no mission, he would have to give himself one.

He removed the gun from his pocket. He also checked to make sure all of his knives were still hidden on his person. He pulled the mask out of a different pocket than the one holding his gun and put it on his face.

He put on his hat and pulled down the front to cover his eyes. He swung open the motel door with such a force that it fell off of its hinges. Bloodthirsty and holding a loaded handgun, he walked down to the registration office. The woman was gone, and it seemed a few hours had passed since he had entered the motel. It was now midnight, according to the clock above the registration clerk's head.

The Winter Soldier shot the new man behind the desk without missing a beat. He kept walking out the door as the man slumped over on the counter, blood pooling around his head. The clock had shattered when the bullet had gone straight through the man's head, permanently stuck at 12:03.

The Winter Soldier made it about four blocks away, shooting anyone he came across, before he heard police sirens. Someone else in the motel must have heard the gunshot and called the police. He dove into an alleyway, the blaring sirens and bright lights aggravating his head. He collapsed on a pile of soda cans, grabbing at something to make the pain stop. He eventually settled on pulling at his own hair, screaming to match the sirens and dying down as they did.

Silence washed over the neighborhood, which seemed to be either deserted or everyone was sleeping. He closed his eyes, trying to stop his mind from exploding. This only made the pain worse, and he writhed on the concrete. Visions danced in his eyes, even when he opened them, and it was becoming unbearable.

He ripped the sleeve off of his left arm, revealing the metal underneath. It helped him cope by ripping at the fabric, until he finally fell unconscious, his body unable to stand any more.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: I know I said I would probably make it a one-shot. I lied. Thank you to my lovely reviewer who motivated me to get off my lazy butt and write chapter 2. It may be a little unclear, but he finally passed out in the alley only an hour or two before this chapter.**

**Also, I edited chapter 1. I didn't realize I left that sentence incomplete, but it's there now.**

**One last thing, I'm sorry. I have no idea what D.C. is like so this little town may be really inaccurate. Sorry.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Bucky Barnes or any writing talent at all.**

* * *

Bucky was woken the next morning by sunlight streaming into the alley. It nearly blinded him as he opened his eyes slowly. He rubbed them with the back of his flesh hand and sat up. His eyes took their sweet time adjusting to the light, and he sat there squinting for a minute or two.

His headache was gone now, but the chirping birds were likely to bring it back. He looked around for the source, and found a little group of birds pecking at some food at the entrance to the alley. He threw a knife at them, hitting and killing one. The others scattered in panic, returning the area to silence. The occasional car rolled past, but other than that it was quiet.

He was panicking slightly as he realized he had no idea where he was or how he had gotten there. Looking around, he could tell that the cracked buildings around him were abandoned. It didn't look like a nice area to be in, for someone who didn't know how to fight. He saw water dripping from gutters, making a little _ploosh_ sound every time a droplet hit the ground. There was garbage everywhere, and his pants were stained with something that looked a lot like grease.

Water hit him right in the eye as he looked up. It looked like it would be a nice day, but storm clouds in the distance promised more rain. His hair was still damp from last night's rain, and his jacket was completely soaked.

Not only was it soaked, but it was also now completely useless, he observed as he looked at his exposed left arm. Its only purpose was to keep his prosthetic arm hidden, but the sleeve appeared to have been ripped off. The arm was whirring very softly and slightly dirty. Little rocks had embedded themselves in the cracks between the sheets of metal, and it would have to be cleaned up before it broke.

Two more drops of water hit his face, and he pulled off his mask and wiped his face with his hands. The gesture replaced the cold water with some other liquid, which was thick and warm. He looked at his hands, disappointed to find the palms covered in blood as well as the hem of his sleeve. He had just rubbed the blood all over his face, which would turn out to be a problem.

He used the ripped sleeve to wipe it off, though he had no idea if he removed it all. He would have to find somewhere to wash up, and get a new jacket. Maybe some gloves as well, because he left his at the museum.

He tried to remember how he had gotten here, but his mind was blank. Flashes of red filled his mind - which were no help at all, because obviously he had committed _some_ kind of bloody crime - and his head starting aching again.

He found his gun on top of a pile of four bloody wallets, obviously stolen from whoever had been his poor victim last night. He stuffed them all into different pockets in his pants and took off his jacket. He put his mask in the pocket with the gun and stashed his knife back in its hiding spot. His hat was nowhere to be found, but he could buy a new one.

He walked out of the alley and began heading down the sidewalk. He had no idea where he was going, or where he was, but he could smell food. His stomach grumbled at the thought of eating. It had been days since his last meal.

As he continued walking where his nose was taking him, he reached a more populated area of the town. There were cars, and pigeons, and people going about their day. Shops were just starting to open, and people were waiting for buses and hailing taxes and reading newspapers on benches. He grabbed one out of a man's hands, tearing a piece of it and getting blood on another part of the paper. Ignoring the man's protests, he went into a public bathroom to wash the blood off of himself. He stuffed the newspaper into a pocket, which was starting to get full.

He began scrubbing at his hands and face, thinking as he did. He had noticed the stares people gave him as he walked by, and he could tell that he was getting odd looks from the other men entering and leaving the bathroom. His working metal prosthetic and bloody face had gotten him noticed, and that was not a good thing.

He dried his face with a paper towel, and rubbed at the red star on his arm. He knew the paint wasn't going to come off with just water, but he had to try.

Eventually he was forced to give up and throw away the paper towel. He would have to find some kind of paint remover to get it off. He left the bathroom, glad that it was somewhat fast-paced in this area, and those who had seen him had gone on with their business.

The street was getting busier, almost like it was waking up. The smell of food kept getting stronger as he walked. His mouth began watering as he thought of eating a juicy burger and some fries.

He found himself at a little restaurant and bar. He walked inside, taking in his surroundings. It wasn't particularly beautiful, but that was fine. He had no idea how much money he had, and he could be traced if he was found using some dead person's credit card. Some men were getting themselves drunk at the bar, even though it was only noon. A bartender was trying to refuse them more drinks, looking slightly uncomfortable around the large men. A waitress was taking the order of another patron, but other than that it was empty. He sat himself down at a booth in the corner and busied himself with sorting out the useable money from the ruined and bloody money.

He had fifty-six dollars in total, enough to get him a meal and a new jacket, at least. He moved the money to the cleanest wallet, as well as the credit cards from all four wallets. He would get cash at an ATM and abandon them later.

The waitress finally came up to his booth, holding a notepad and a pen.

"What can I get'cha, hon?" she asked, making a little rhythm by tapping her pen on her notepad. Her gaze drifted to the metal arm. She tried to be conspicuous but it was obvious she was staring at it.

"A cheeseburger, some fries and..." He glanced at the men, who were now happy that they had finally gotten another round of drinks. "...and something strong."

The waitress nodded as she ripped her gaze away from Bucky's arm and began writing down the order. She looked disgusted that this _clearly_ homeless man was wasting his money by getting drunk.

After throwing away the other wallets and useless money, the waitress finally came back with his food and his drink. Noticing the different colors of hair ties on her wrist, he asked her, "Before you go, can I have a hair tie? I'll pay you for it."

She raised an eyebrow at the request but gave him a black one.

"Maybe you should try cutting your hair, and washing it once in a while," she said with a sneer. Then she stalked off to the bar, probably to tell the bartender to stop giving the group of men drinks.

He tied his hair back, and decided he wasn't going to give her a tip. He was surprised by the difference the ponytail made while he ate. He wasn't eating his own hair anymore. He took a bite of his burger, then chugged most of his drink.

He was disappointed to find that whatever HYDRA had done to him didn't seem to let him enjoy the feeling of even getting tipsy. He could have used something to numb his mind for a bit.

He let out a sigh and set the rest of his drink down. He ate some fries and leaned back in his chair. He thought about how badly he needed to leave D.C., but he didn't do anything about it. He was enjoying the time he had, without anyone ordering him around. He felt a quick, sharp pain in his head that faded quickly.

"What'sh da matter, roboguy? You gettin' all- hic!- fidgggety?" one of the drunk men asked, acting like he was the leader or something. They seemed to have gotten bored with harassing the poor bartender. Bucky hadn't even noticed them walk up, which was odd.

The others laughed at the man's almost incoherent joke. Some of them repeated it, and others were laughing and hiccuping so loudly that Bucky could feel the pain coming back in his head.

Bucky chose to ignore them, taking another bite of his sandwich. After the man realized he was being ignored, which took a second, he got very angry.

"Hey, I'm talking to you, one-arm!" He grabbed Bucky's metal arm, probably not even expecting him to feel the touch.

Bucky did. He reacted instantly, without even thinking about what he was doing. His left arm moved slower because of the rocks stuck in it, but it was fast and strong enough to grab hold of the drunk man's arm and crush it.

Bucky jumped up in surprise at what he had done. The man screamed in pain, scattering the other men and summoning all of the other members of the restaurant staff. His arm was dangling bloody and useless and slightly crumpled as he ran out the door.

The bartender let out a noise of fright, breaking the silence that had come when the drunk man left the place. The other patron in the bar was staring at Bucky in horror and the waitress was already calling the police.

Bucky slapped some money on the table and ran out of the restaurant. He ran the opposite direction he had come in earlier. It brought up a few more images from the previous night, worsening his headache. He finally slowed down at an ATM about ten blocks from the bar, but he didn't feel tired.

He got all of the money out of the credit cards, filling his wallet up with thousands of dollars. He could probably get a very fancy new jacket.

He rested against the wall for a moment, willing his headache to disappear. He could hear police sirens now, bringing up more images from last night.

He pulled out the crumpled newspaper and began reading as he waited for his headache to calm down. Although much of the front article was either ripped or ruined by blood, he could still make out the headline.

"SEVEN DEAD IN MURDER SPREE"

He skimmed over what he could see of the article. Armed and dangerous... report any leads... it was all the same stuff you saw in newspapers, no matter what year it was.

He froze when he saw the grainy security camera photo in the corner of the page. He could recognize the hat, and the mask, and the little glint of a metal hand in the light of a street lamp.

The picture was of him, but he couldn't remember any of it.

* * *

"Check this out, Cap," Sam said, showing Steve the picture in the news article. "Doesn't that mask look familiar?"

Steve ripped the picture out of the magazine, examining it closely.

"Says he's killing innocents now, I guess... Oh, look at this, it says he's 'armed' and dangerous, Steve. Armed. And dangerous." Sam laughed at his joke, but Steve remained fixated on the little picture of the man he knew, even though he couldn't make out a face, to be Bucky Barnes.


End file.
